war poem

The cries and wails of homeless babies fill the village,

rubble from once crowded buildings fall onto the road.

People wonder around the streets aimlessly,

Often tumbling over motionless cold and red painted bodies.

Then, the rumbling of engines are heard in the distance.

Discriminated, fallen soldiers trudge across the streets.

Occasionally being poked by sharp, deadly knives on guns,

wielded by smirking heartless creatures.

The Japanese have won the war.